“Wait for me, Miss Eleanor!”
The school bell rang, and the corridors gradually emptied. Teachers herded lingering students toward their classrooms as sunlight streamed through the windows, tempting everyone outside. Miss Eleanor paused outside her classroom door. Like her pupils, she longed to drop everything and wander the springtime streets. With a sigh, she stepped inside.
“Good morning. Sit down, please,” she said, moving to her desk.
“Who’s absent today?” Her eyes scanned the room.
Top student Annie Sinclair stood and reported in crisp English that Rebecca was ill and that Nick wasn’t there. A murmur rippled through the class.
“James, where’s Nick?” Miss Eleanor asked, switching briefly to their shared language for privacy.
James was Nick’s neighbor. Everyone knew Nick’s father had been released from prison a year ago—jobless, drunk, and violent. Nick often showed up with bruises hidden under his sleeves. His PE kit changed in private to avoid questions. But everyone knew.
Miss Eleanor pitied Nick. He was bright, mature beyond his years—children from troubled homes grew up fast. He grasped lessons quickly, except English. Still, he tried.
After uni, she’d returned to her old school as an English teacher. She hadn’t wanted to leave her mum alone in Manchester, even when her peers moved to London for private schools.
At first, students disrupted her lessons, but soon they adored her. She dressed formally, but warmth flickered behind her strictness. The girls mimicked her poise; the boys hid crushes behind cheekiness. This year, she’d become Year 7B’s form tutor.
“Miss Eleanor,” James said quietly, “Nick’s dad got drunk again last night. The whole street heard the shouting. An ambulance took his mum to hospital. The police came after—arrested his dad. Nick went with them while they find family.”
Miss Eleanor gasped. The class waited, expectant.
“Right. After lessons, I’ll go to the station and check on him.” Relief rustled through the room.
Nick’s face filled her mind—those sharp, unsettling glances that made her fluster. The way he tensed when she offered help.
She forced cheer into her voice. “Okay, let’s begin.”
At break, she went to the headmaster.
“Mr. Thompson, about Nick—”
“I know. The police called. If no family’s found, he’ll go into care. His father’s facing time. His mum… may not pull through.” His tired eyes warned her off. “As his form tutor, you can visit. But don’t get involved. I’ve seen how these things go.”
At the station, they met in a pale green room with stiff chairs.
“How’s Mum?” Nick demanded.
Miss Eleanor faltered—she hadn’t checked.
“Stable. They’re not allowing visitors yet.” She lied badly.
“Will they lock him up? They better.” Nick’s sleeve slid back as he hid fresh bruises.
“Any relatives? Aunts, uncles?”
“Dunno. Even if there are, no one wants me.” His gaze pinned her. “Can I write to you?”
She hesitated, then scribbled her address. “Of course.”
“Cheers. You’re kind. I… like you. A lot. I know I’m just a kid, but—wait for me, yeah?”
His clumsy confession almost made her laugh. Or cry. She fought the urge to hug him—he’d mistake comfort for something else.
A constable interrupted. “Lunch is here.”
Time to go.
“Stay strong. Call or write if you need anything.”
“Miss Eleanor!” His voice cracked. “Wait for me.”
She nodded, blinking fast.
Two days later, the headmaster called her in.
“Eleanor, Nick’s mother passed. Closed-casket funeral. But—his paternal grandmother’s taking him to Sheffield.” He paused. “I know you’re young, pretty. Kids form attachments, especially when home’s… lacking.”
Her cheeks burned. “I understand.”
She told the class Nick was safe with his gran.
His first letter came weeks later—short, messy handwriting. Sheffield was alright. Gran was strict but didn’t hit. Missed his mates. He’d return.
She replied carefully: class updates, book recommendations (*Swallows and Amazons*, *Goodnight Mister Tom*).
A year later, she married—a man who sneered at her “ungrateful brats” and cheated within months. When she left, her mum intercepted Nick’s letters.
Six years passed.
Spring sunlight melted puddles across Manchester. Miss Eleanor—now just Eleanor—walked home, squinting, when tall, broad-shouldered Nick blocked her path.
“Hello, Miss Eleanor.”
She gaped. “Nick? Goodness—you’re…”
“I kept my promise.” He guided her around the puddle. “Let’s grab a coffee.”
At the café where she’d once caught her ex, Nick confessed: he’d graduated, worked at a steel plant. Gran had passed. He’d asked James for photos of her class all these years.
“You divorced because of me?” she teased.
“Maybe.” His grin faded. “Why didn’t you reply?”
A shadow crossed her face. *Mum never told me.*
He misread her silence. “I get it—you need time. But your daughter needs a dad. I won’t give up.”
“Nick, I was your *teacher*—”
“Ten years ago.” He leaned in. “Age is just a number. Say yes.”
At home, she reasoned: *He’s clinging to a fantasy. It’ll fade.* Yet when he called, they talked for hours. His English had improved; she still corrected his accent.
One evening, he arrived with roses and a dollhouse. Her daughter, Katy, adored him instantly.
“I’m taking you to Sheffield,” he said after dinner. “Just see my life. No strings.”
Against her doubts, they went.
For days, they explored the city. Katy conked out early. Eleanor pretended to sleep in her room—until Nick carried her to candlelit sheets.
“Stop pretending,” he whispered.
She surrendered.
Some said the age gap doomed them. But happiness lasts as long as love does. And his? Unshakable.
